The Names They Gave Us(28)

The younger campers sit slack-jawed and mesmerized. Some sway their arms and rock their shoulders, getting into it. As the girls’ last powerful step vibrates across the floor, the whole camp rises up in cheers and shouts of the girls’ names.

Someone screams, “Yeah, Jones!??” and he lifts one hand before turning it to display the girls like they’re the Showcase Showdown prize on The Price Is Right.

“I didn’t know he could play the trumpet,” I whisper to Anna, echoing her words.

“Oh yeah. It’s, like . . . what he does. Plays, teaches lessons.”

Earlier this week, I questioned why Rhea would have a talent show the second week of camp. Why not wait till the end? It would give them more time to prepare, for the camp culture to gel. But I get it—I entirely get it. She’s giving everyone the opportunity to say, This is part of who I am. This is what I’m good at. This is what I want you to see in me.

The show runs later than 8:00 p.m., and we herd the campers back for bedtime. Our girls are still singing and dancing as they change into pajamas, seemingly nowhere near sleep.

“Sorry they’re all riled up for you,” Simmons whispers to Garcia.

Garcia shrugs. “They’re really into Matilda, so it’s fine. Are you sure you want your night off? I don’t know if I can live up to your narration.”

“Ha,” Simmons says, but she looks pleased. “You’ll be great.”

Every night, Simmons has been reading them a chapter of Matilda before bed. She reads with conviction—her voice sweet for Miss Honey and gruff for Miss Trunchbull. I listen with my eyes closed, smiling at how much Simmons sounds like a mom. Not my mom, just . . . a mom, that kind of loving effort, the comfort of a familiar voice as you drift off.

I use the bathroom and tame my flyaways in the mirror. I’m not sure what’ll be going on in the Bunker tonight, but I figure a swipe of mascara can’t hurt. I shimmy into my bathing suit, just in case they go swimming at night. It’s good to be prepared.

When I duck out of the bathroom, the girls don’t even look away from Garcia, who is making Matilda’s parents sound thoroughly horrible. Simmons has a backpack on her shoulder, ready to head out the door.

“You going into town?” she asks.

“Oh,” I say. I mean, if that’s what people are doing, I’m totally in. “Yeah! I guess so.”

“Cool. Have a good night.” With that, she’s gone. The screen door snaps behind her.

Wait. Does that mean she’s not going into town? Is that not what people are doing? I’m frozen in place as I consider what just happened.

I step outside, hoping to find more information, and I do. I can barely make out, in the distance, four people disappearing down the path toward the woods—Anna’s blond hair bright against the trees, a red tartan blanket thrown over Tambe’s shoulder, the stark difference in height between Jones and Simmons.

Part of me expects Anna to turn around, to realize she’d forgotten me. But why would she? I told Simmons I was going into town. Besides, they’ve probably had this four-person routine for years. And so I’m alone, black-lashed, feeling a type of excluded that I thought I had left behind on the middle school playground.

I could go to bed—I do need the sleep—but it just seems too pathetic. So I head to the piano in the rec room. After a quick warm-up, I dance my fingers across my last-ever recital piece. It comes right back, like it was stored in my fingers this whole time. I play the full thing, with emotion, with passion, and when I hit the last chord, it resounds, echoing off the wooden floors and into the vast room.

I used to practice alone all the time, no audience but the portrait of Jesus above our piano.

But here, in this empty room, the keys’ lingering hum sounds mournful. And I’m not sure why I feel lonely instead of just alone.





CHAPTER NINE

Sunday morning, I walk a bit over a mile around the lake, finally straight toward Holyoke. The sun lifts over the horizon, and it feels metaphorical.

My family’s little cabin is set away from the rest of camp, farther up the hill and nestled into trees. It looks like a kid’s drawing of a house—a square with a triangle roof. Inside isn’t much more than that, actually: a sink, oven, and refrigerator all crammed in a row; a pantry; and a three-person table against the wall. Then a cozy living room, one bathroom, and two bedrooms. If you call mine a bedroom. It might have originally been a closet. But it’s mine.

I burst in the front door, expecting the teakettle to be squealing on the stovetop to my left and my mom reading devotions at the tiny table to my right. But it’s quiet. They must already be setting up for the service.

“There she is!” my dad says when he spots me just inside the chapel doors. It feels too dramatic to run toward his wide-open arms, so I just hurry. My mom turns the corner behind him, happy but hesitant. As I wrap my arms around her, it takes all I have not to weep pitifully in relief, in the comfort of seeing her looking the same.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she whispers into my hair.

“How are you feeling?” As I hear my words, they strike me as oddly formal—a doctor’s query instead of a daughter’s. “Was the first treatment okay?”

“It was fine.” Her hand runs over my curls. “I’m just fine.”